POETRY BY MAX BINDI

Max Bindi is an Italian Multimedia Artist/Author/Poet. His work has been featured in notable Anthologies of Speculative Poetry by publishers such as The SFPA, HellBound books, The Ravens Quoth Press, as well as in a variety of International Literary Magazines , including: The Horror Zine, Lovecraftiana (Rogue Planet Press), Aphelion, The Sirens Call eZine, Raven Cage Zine, Better Than Starbucks, The Stygian Lepus, View From Atlantis, The World of Myth Magazine and elsewhere. He was nominated for the Dwarf Stars Award in 2023 and in 2025.

GHOST POEM

I am tired of living at the window
looking through my own reflection
sick of wallowing in this limbo
lost in the landscape of my introspection.
I am bored stiff with being a ghost
although being a corpse would be more wearing
such a hideous idle boast
almost beyond spectral bearing.

STAY BY ME

Stay by me when the lights go out
and the dark draws in
when the shadows of doubt
stalk what it might have been
Stay by me when the stars are right
and the apparition is declared a fake
when the witch's knot is too tight
and sleeping beauty bites like a snake
Stay by me when the blood rain falls hard
and something scrunches under the floorboard
when the fossilized hand turns the tarot card
and all objects move of their own accord
Stay by me when the dead tell the tale
and evil dolls dance stuffed with saw dust
when the marriage of Hell and Heaven goes stale
and the strained silence bursts into a wind gust
Stay by me when the Ouja board breaks in two
and the ghostly voice raises a notch
when the ancient curse comes true
and the buried family gathers for our deathwatch.

DOUBLE EXPOSURE

The more I look around
the more I withdraw into myself
I walk underground
yet my picture stands on the cobwebbed shelf.
And I wish her sepulchrous heart would open
and swallow me up again
and the misty rain would fall unbroken
upon the necropolis of loss and gain.

WEIRD SONG

Everyone is strange
weird in his own way
When Gods and devils are out of range
Hell is as good as a play.
Locked in a closet with no key
lurking in its dark ghastly den
The human skeleton shall never be
more than a boogyman.
So give time and breath
to all worldly snares and traps
you know how strangely in depth
Life and Death overlaps
The Dead dread the living
The living kill in their troubled sleep
The Unborn are inconsolably self grieving
The Undead dream and creep
For everyone is strange
weird in his own way
When Gods and devils are out of range
Hell is as good as a play.